I’m sitting in the den drinking beer. The fog won’t burn off, it’s cold like San Francisco. I stood in the aisle at the grocery store with the toothpaste and traveler-size section, and lost myself in the overhead music, forgot what I was looking for.
My iTunes library will outlive me and half of it will go unheard. I’m on song 450 of 15092 now, determined to play out this session of Shuffle unbroken. I used to think if you reached far enough into it, if you let the supposed randomness of it play out, it would reveal some hidden meaning by the end.
The cat left another corpse by the door, and I kicked it below the bush, the eyes X’d out like a cartoon. Part of me thinks there would be poetic justice for the cats to get killed and picked apart for sport, by a larger version of the same creatures they’ve been maiming and bloodletting all summer. Another part fears karmic repercussion for even thinking that, as I’d have to deal with the remains and emotional imbroglio with the kids.
Their teeth are in bad shape according to the vet, requiring some special rinse that costs $750 apiece. As soon as we spend the money, one will disappear or get eaten, and there will go that $750 rinse.
One of my favourite blogger writer friends from Canada wrote about re-reading Slaughterhouse Five and so now I’m doing it too, and I can hear Kurt Vonnegut in Ross, and hear Kurt inside of me.
I sat in the dark by the glow of the moon in the hot tub listening to the leaves snapping off the trees and thought there could be footsteps out there: animals, spirits, thieves…and imagined a poem in my head linked to the halo of the moon, and then slipped out of the tub while I could still remember the words but got genuinely scared, and had to slam the door shut and lock it, sure that whatever was moving in the dark was about to grab me in in the doorway.
I wrote it on paper and crossed out parts of it and rewrote them, and thought it looked like copies of an original song written by Bob Dylan, put inside the liner notes.
The crows are black spades against the gray scrim of fog and it’s an Escher print, black and white, always changing depending on the angle of view, always the same, too.
There is no meaning in my iTunes library, no more so than the tree branches that look like Halloween hands, like claws for hawks to perch upon, like footsteps and figures and faces in the dark, milky shadows.
I lay looking out the window with my arms over my chest like a corpse, like a bug with its legs in the air, someone folded the arms to make an X, a landing pad for the heart. So it goes.